


Better to Walk with a Friend in the Dark

by mageprinceloki



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Nygmobblepot, gotham series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageprinceloki/pseuds/mageprinceloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Edward embraces his darker side and makes a deal with Oswald, using... unique methods of persuasion. </p>
<p>**Contains some violence and dub-con, and mis-use of the Riddler's marvelous cane**<br/>***Also Top!Edward, because I dig that***</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better to Walk with a Friend in the Dark

   Did time move more quickly within the confines of Gotham’s densely-packed buildings and bustling people, or did it only seem that way? He wondered, sometimes, though for the most part it was only an idle curiosity.

                                                                       _Strange for him; his curiosity was rarely idle in any sense._

   But time had passed for the forensics analyst; time in which he had slowly embraced the other parts of himself, worn them like a fresh suit and found them strangely… _comfortable_. 

   The first killings were only ever a matter of necessity or sheer, impulsive frustration. The impulse to taunt the police, though, gradually outweighing any sane considerations, which is when the little notes began to appear: Crypic. Carefully-worded (never in phrases he might normally have chosen, although hints were given in each one–if you knew where to look).

   Just notes. No body, no trace evidence at the scene beyond the occasional spatters of blood. It _was_ his area of expertise, after all, and the little voice he’d ignored for so long, the one that insisted he was better than all of them; brighter and vastly more amusing, slowly took the place of his conscience.

   The clipped set of verses left in Kristen Kringle’s brightly-decorated apartment read strangely like a sonnet. 

   He almost regretted her, at least.

   Ed’s new, double life carried unexpected perks, though: He was able to turn his talents to helping “solve” the crimes; an ironic twist that made him laugh softly to himself as he worked alone, late into long, dreary nights as he did every test he knew would come up empty, forced at last to use his puzzle-solving skills to decipher some key part of each note.

   While it was far more thrilling when someone else figured it out instead (infinitely more, if the truth be told) the GCPD staff now viewed him as more of an asset than a nuisance. Part of him (the cunning, shifting part) liked to imagine it was respect in their eyes while another (uncertain, unready) feared it might be suspicion. 

   Still, he rose above his petty title at last, feeling more and more each day like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon: Shaking off the old, dead husk of his former self to become something brighter, bolder, and certainly more confident than he’d once been, back when he still crawled among the nothing-creatures bound so pitibly to the earth.

   Targets were chosen for their wrongdoings. Like a dark (if somewhat… _whimsical_ ) avatar of vengeance, he was doing the work he’d always longed to do–making Gotham City a safer place to live in, at least for those who mattered. And who better to judge that, after all? His intellect was piercing and nothing could remain hidden from him for long. He was a god among ants, and had walked among them as if he were less than destiny intended for much too long already. 

   This new self, dubbed “The Riddler” by local press, was an image with bright wings spread wide, ready to soar above the common herd. And even beyond his sudden grace at the department, it was _fun_. Dressing for the evening, discarding his glasses, and even taking his prized possession along–a fine walking-stick with its golden handle shaped like a quizzmark, won in a trivia contest during fresh college days–Nygma cut a figure so different from his norm that even fellow officers couldn’t recognize him. 

   The transformation, though not yet complete, was truly that miraculous.

   On this particular evening, his step was light and his smile broader than ever, the wind flicking at his dark pin-stripped coat tails to show the slick green lining beneath. Occasionally, eyes would track him as he moved through the crowd. Hardly surprising, now; he moved with certainty and purpose, with unchecked pride and grace, with all his limbs finally working together in smooth, steady strides for once, just as he’d always hoped they might someday do.

   This would be his biggest move yet, though toward what even he could only guess. There was one more who knew his secret, and now? 

                                                                                   Now it was time to deal with _him_.

                                                                                **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **

   In the dusty, muted light of the closed nightclub, Oswald leaned against the bar and sighed at the sheets before him. In truth, he had no head for business. That was what accountants were for, after all. His own talents lay elsewhere, and balancing the books more than simply bored him, it irritated him beyond reason. He rattled the papers and tapped his pen against the bar-top, sipping at a weakly-mixed drink. It was far too early for anything stronger, and complex calculations required a clearer head.

   The door opened with no particular fanfare and he turned, staring up at Edward’s slender figure, pausing only for a second to appreciate it before grunting in annoyance, “We’re closed.”

   Letting the doors swing shut behind him, the man remained unmoved, drawing a syrupy, too-polite smile from Cobblepot as he (gratefully, if the truth be known) dropped the sheaf of papers. “Listen… _friend_ –” 

   Stopping, he scowled in thought, almost in recognition–this shape was familiar, and he stood slowly to honor the occasion, straightening his tie. “Wait–I know you! Lieutenant Gordon’s pal from the GCPD? …There’s nothing illegal going on here, _Mister Nygma_ , and if you have more little tidbits about the life of penguins to share, well… you’ll just have to save those for another day, I’m afraid. Like I said– _we’re closed_.” 

   From obsequious to biting, all in the span of a few short words. He was rather pleased with himself as he prepared to take his seat again, the intruder dismissed, but something about the man’s stance kept him still, quick eyes darting up and down Nygma’s slight form, from the cut of his coat to the surprisingly expensive shoes to the cane his delicate hands rested upon.

   “But you know, I _really_ have to ask… Why are you dressed like a game show host?” He smirked briefly, pleased with his own wit. Then the golden curl of the cane’s tip thumped hard into his chest, bruising the solar plexus and knocking him backwards. Desperately, his brain raced with data: Edward, the odd little man working late nights and winning headlines, solving puzzles to unravel cases that apparently only _he_ could solve. That one lone time he’d stumbled upon someone who matched his description (but it couldn’t have been _him_ , surely… could it?) pushing a bound, squirming form into the trunk of a car.

   Wrong place, wrong time, as always. But at least Oswald was quick to put these pieces together after the fact.

   “Riddler,” he murmured quietly, using the name Gotham’s flashier rags had ascribed. “You’re him. You’re the guy. The… the riddle guy.” Not his best response ever, but as he stared up in wide-eyed fascination, sprawled gracelessly on his hands and ass while Nygma loomed over him, other thoughts filled his head. For one, there was an irritating _familiarity_ in their relative positions, but at the same time, he was gripped by a strange impulse to laugh.

                                                                                 They had so much in common, after all. 

   Then the blank expression on Ed’s face shifted to something nearly feral and the cane spun swiftly in his hands, tip slamming down with a resonant **_thunk_** just a half-inch away from Oswald’s crotch. He was pinned in place by the tail of his suit coat, and made an undignified sound of shock and fear as he struggled instinctively to back away.

   “Some try to hide, some try to cheat, but time will show that we always will meet. Try as you might to guess my name, I promise you’ll know it, when it’s you that I claim.” Impossible not to describe that tone as, well, _enigmatic_ ; it held no answerable question and even in the mundane space of the silent nightclub carried an agelessness that brought Cobblepot’s quick mind to a standstill. He could only frown in confusion as the man leaned down slowly, sliding the wood–surely by accident–too, too firmly between his captive’s thighs. “Death.” Edward answered himself. “I am _death_.”

   Oswald shouted for Butch, still chief among his guards, but no one came at all and the scientist’s smile was slow, cool, almost shark-like in its vast display of teeth when he pulled a small, capped syringe from his coat pocket. “Your men are having a li-ttle… _nap_ right now. I though we should talk in private.” 

   The curved part of the question-mark handle was hooked abruptly behind Oswald’s head, drawing him closer until he could only bite his lower lip at Edward’s oddly-compelling scent. No cologne, of course; few killers were stupid enough to wear anything that might leave a trace behind, but he had a strange, ethereal smell that brought to mind science labs… and certain boys that Oswald had deliberately sat too close to, simply to enjoy the rich warmth of their pheromones. There was no name for it, but it made his pale skin flush as though fevered, heat flooding him whether he wanted it or not.

   “So, you’re here to kill me?” he chuckled to himself. “Because–I’ve gotta say, people keep trying. _Important_ people. But no one’s managed it yet.” His was a curious little smile, equal parts ingratiating and provoking. The examiner gave it no particular notice.

   “If I have to,” he said simply, refusing even to blink, which was more than a little unnerving. “I thought we might be able to help one another, though. What did you say to Gordon? ‘Better to walk with a friend in the dark?’ Well…” His hand twisted and Oswald winced as the metal dug into the base of his skull. “Gordon’s never going to make friends with you. He sees you as just another petty thug to be taken down.”

   Cobblepot frowned at the dig. “Yeah, no offense meant, but I think I'd rather wait for him to come around than buddy up with a homicidal maniac.” His dry tone nearly masked the faint quaver in his voice. (Nearly.)

   Edward smiled again. “I’m not a maniac. ‘The beginning of eternity, the end of space and time, the beginning of every end, and the end of every place’.” He paused in his recitation, head tilting like a bird watching something shiny. “You're a very attractive man, Mr Cobblepot.”

   Nonplussed by the sudden change in direction, still pinned and held far too close to the other’s long form, he licked his lips slowly. “Please, call me Oswald,” he managed at last, supercilious smile at its brightest and most ironic.

    Deadpan, Edward repeated himself. “You're a very attractive man, Oswald.” Pulling away at last, he stood, and held out his hand  to the prone, beaten creature below. “Friends?”

   Chuckling good-naturedly, glad at least to have the chance to rise, Oswald shrugged narrow shoulders and allowed himself to be pulled up. “Sure!” He chirped, eyeing his new… companion nervously. In truth, he was corpse-cold and terrifying; dead-eyed and dangerous. A gleam of dark, lethal humor shone in him like a beacon. But there was also power there, and that somehow always seemed to tug at him, in ways he didn’t care to examine. “So how would this work? You need help getting rid of the bodies?”

   The smile that met his words was chilling. Fortunately, Oswald kind of liked the cold.

   “No. I just need your silence.“

   And with that, the smaller man was pushed swiftly back against the bar, one wooden edge digging into his spine while the Riddler’s staff pressed across his chest. "Which I think means we’ll need to be _more_ than just friends–don’t you?”

   As their bodies met, Oswald realized two things: Edward was hard as a rock, swollen length pushed shamelessly against his thigh, and as he stared up into those cold, dead eyes, he felt his own cock stirring in kind.

   “If the plan is you telling me what to do and when to do it,” he growled, pushing back despite the ache in his chest–Edward was surprisingly strong. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t take orders anymore,” Cobblepot sneered. “That’s the great thing about being the new king of Gotham’s underworld–I don’t have to.”

   It wasn’t quite a laugh; more a grunt of humor that rose from Edward’s narrow chest. “I think you’ll take mine,” he said pleasantly, a teasing lilt in his tone as one hand lowered to cup Oswald’s cock, stroking it slowly through the thin fabric.

_‘You’ll do better with that one if she's a little bit scared of you,’_ his mind echoed. A lesson learned from the late Miss Kringle, though exactly when he’d started to enjoy that angle, Nygma wasn’t sure. Something about it just made him giddy and now he could see the same confusion filling Oswald’s eyes that used to fill hers, just before the lids started to lower and–oh yes, there it was, that first soft, rewarding noise. Acceptance. His smile grew wider.

   The scalpel slid easily from his pocket, and blue eyes widened for a second (a thrill traced down his own spine at the other’s fear–electric and irresistible) before it harmlessly nicked away a button. One, then another, slowly baring Oswald’s chest to his mouth. Slipping the narrow blade back in its protective sheath, Nygma traced patterns with tongue and lips across the pale skin while his hand continued working.

   “Ah… Maybe–Maybe we should move this… Elsewhere,” Oswald managed in husky, broken phrases. “Take a few things off. Before we make a mess…” Lifting his head, the analyst stared up, bangs touseled to fall across his forehead. It was almost a sweet look–boyish. 

   “Maybe I _want_ to make a mess,” he teased. “Maybe…” Long, quick fingers undid a button and zipper, slipping beneath the cloth until his hand closed around that bare, throbbing length. “Maybe I want to leave you just a little bit… _wrecked_.”

   Penguin’s head fell back in frustration. “Dammit, Nygma.”

   A pointed squeeze and the quick, angry baring of teeth. “You shouldn’t swear so much.”

   Lips pulled back in a defiant snarl as he met the man’s eyes coldly. “ _Fuck you_.” It was a mistake, and he knew it the second that playful smile faded–quick as a blink, cane set aside as and free hand closing around his throat while the other continued its long, slow strokes. It was more than a little surprising how strong those hands were, as slender as they seemed to be. Then again… clearly looks could be very misleading indeed.

   “That’s not very friendly,” Edward noted. “And I’d hate to lose my first real friend; nothing behind but a cryptic little letter: ‘What’s black and white and dead all over?’. It’s an epitaph, really. No one’s called them that yet, but that’s what they are.” Darting forward, he licked a slow line along Oswald’s jaw, murmuring a question against his ear. “Still friends?”

   He nodded quickly, eyes so wide that whites showed all around.

   “Good!” Ed chriped, patting his face fondly as he finally let him breathe again. Then he freed Oswald’s cock at last and bent to give the tip a series of swirling, tantilizing licks until the man groaned and lifted, aching for more.

   “We could have a working relationship. I need funding for my research, and you sometimes need to make people… disappear. _Completely_.” Another series of licks, his tongue curling to toy with the tender spot where tip and shaft met. “The only orders I’ll give are nice, simple ones. I only make bad people disappear. You know a lot of those, I’m sure–”

   God, that tongue, and those quickening strokes… If he could just get his head clear, bargaining would be a lot easier. Instead, Oswald moaned in vague, breathless agreement.

   “–and in situations like this. An example:” he raised again, locking eyes with his new partner. “I want you to say my name when you come.”

   “Fu– Dam–” Cobblepot made a strangled sound and swallowed hard, then nodded, panting a simple “ _yes_ ” as his hips rolled faster to gain more friction.  
It would happen soon, he was pretty sure, and something inside him had twisted itself, a hard knot of resolve melting away. He hated himself for it, but god, it felt too good to keep up the resistance.

   Still… Who the hell was this man, to come in here and make demands, push him around like he was nothing, give him orders? A hand rose quickly, Oswald’s teeth bared in a snarl as his fingers tangled and pulled at Edward’s hair. The Riddler only laughed, knowing and waiting for the inevitable. “ ** _Nygma_** ,” he growled, hips bucking twice before white heat flooded him and he felt his own seed soak through the fabric of his slacks. “… _Nygma_.” The second time was a whisper, ending in a soft sound of bliss before his hand freed itself again and dropped listlessly to the bartop.

   Rumpled and weak, shirt buttons scattered like spilled pearls on the floor, pants undone and wetness spreading, he was more than slightly wrecked and knew it. But all he could feel was bliss, even as that chill hand wiped the remaining semen across his chest. 

   Edward finished tidying with a black bar napkin nearby before gathering his cane and smiling down at the ruin he’d left in his wake.

   “You’re a very attractive man, Mr Nygma,” Oswald managed with a breathless laugh, expecting the courtesy of first names to be extended in kind.

   “Thank you,” he said simply, lips twisting in a smirk of wicked pride as he tucked the cane between clasped hands behind him and exited through the staff door. In the distance, Cobblepot could hear him whistling, immaculate and untouched by their encounter.


End file.
